And Then It Was Over
by fille d'esprit
Summary: Is the true nature of man able to change for the better?
1. Chapter 1

Ralph hurried through the crowds of people, shoving away from the giant poster that covered an entire wall of the busy train station. He grabbed his bags from the carousel, paid his parking ticket, and started towards the door, carefully keeping his gaze away from the poster the whole time. Suddenly, a pair of children landed in a wrestling heap right in his path. Ralph, going too fast to stop himself, tripped over the boys and landed on his face, luggage flying everywhere.

"James! Arthur! Stop that!" trilled a shrill voice from behind him. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry sir. My boys certainly do enjoy their rough-housing! James, Arthur, apologize to this man this instant!"

Ralph picked himself up slowly, his bones aching. The arthritis these days was too much, he thought, groaning as he leaned over to pick up his briefcase.

" 'M not 'pologizing 'til James does," whined one of the boys behind him.

Ralph turned around, finally facing the children and their mother. He stopped short. There, in front of him, stood a young, fat boy wearing thick glasses. _Piggy. It couldn't be._ Her blinked slowly, and began breathing again as he noticed the differences between this boy and his old friend. This boy was blonde, not brunette, and he was much younger than Piggy had been when…when…

"Sorry…sir," said the other boy scornfully. Ralph wrenched his gaze away from the first boy, forcing a smile.

"Perfectly alright," he choked out. "Boys, eh? Go on, now. Have a good day. Cheerio!" He grabbed his bags, and hurriedly headed towards the parking lot.

"Sir!" cried a small voice. "You forgot one!" Ralph turned back to the boy.

"Ah, thank yo-" His breath caught in his throat as he realized that the boys were standing right in front of the large poster. He tried to turn away , but it was too late. He found himself staring straight at the poster- and right into the eyes of larger-than-life Jack Merridew.

***

It had been thirty years since Ralph was rescued from the island. He'd been troubled by the experience every day since then- from the knowledge of man's true evil, from the death of his true friends, and the murder he committed. He'd long since given up any dreams of being in the navy- they don't accerpt you if you've spent as many hours as Ralph had in the psychiatrist's office. Not that he ever talked to the doctor. He just sat there, day after day, hour after hour, without saying a word. The psychiatrist quickly grew bored of asking questions that received no answers, chalked it all up to adolescence, and spent the time filing, finishing reports on other patients, and enjoying a mid-morning snack, all while Ralph sat on the leather recliner, and stared impassively at the beige wall. Eventually, Ralph's parents stopped paying for the sessions. They had grown distant, and indifferent. Ralph's father accepted more and more missions abroad with the navy, and his mother busied herself with book clubs, interior decorating, and volunteering at community events. As soon as he was old enough, Ralph had gotten a desk job, keeping records for the city's meat market- how many animals were shipped in for slaughter, which packing industries produced the most, prices in butcheries…his mind was kept busy with the work, which was all he wanted. Letting his mind wander was dangerous. So was sleeping. His dreams were filled with corpses, smoke, pigs, and, always close but never quite hitting him, the boulder. At night, he was back on the island, one person being chased by a horde of demons, spurred on by a redheaded choir boy. During the day, at least, he could escape in the mindless lists of numbers. Superiors saw his obsessive work and long hours as diligence and a "good work effort", and offered him countless promotions, all of which he turned down. He only asked to never be transferred to the pork department. That he would not be able to handle. His employers, while confused, agreed. They insisted, however, on a vacation each quarter (they were trying to avoid charges for overworking employees). As a result, for four days every three months, Ralph took a trip to London, the biggest city he could reach by train. The tropical islands and solitary retreats his co-workers talked dreamily about appealed to him not one bit. He avoided beaches, the ocean, trees even. And he excused himself hurriedly every time his colleagues started sharing their plans for their island vacations.

It was from his quarterly vacation that he was returning now. He staggered, tired and encumbered by his luggage, through the narrow alleyways that led to his small, dingy dwelling (he'd left his car at the nearest parking lot, and had to walk the last kilometer to get home). He was still shocked by the poster- he'd avoided looking at it, and ones like it, for weeks, months maybe. He had almost,_ almost_ forgotten Jack Merridew's face. And now that he remembered, it terrorized his thoughts. Ralph lurched through the last few turns in the alley, jiggled his doorknob, which unlocked its cheap lock, and hefted his bags and himself over the doorsill. Once inside, he sagged against the wall, rubbing his face. He could use a drink- it was his secondary form of escape, for when he wasn't at work. He made his way, in the dark, over to the cupboard that held his supply of cheap gin. The light switched on.

"Hello, Ralph," drawled a low voice from the vicinity of his door. Ralph froze, prompting an evil chuckle from the voice. He turned around, slowly, and his eyes fell on a man in a black suit, his hand still on the light switch.

"I know you."

"Correct."

"Roger."

"Right again, Ralph. It's been, what, thirty years now? I'm memorable, aren't I?"

"Why are you here?" Ralph's heart was beating double-time.

Roger chose not to answer his question. "You've heard the news, haven't you?" he asked, smiling ever so slightly.

"About Jack? Becoming president? Yeah, I've seen the posters. Who hasn't?" He shrugged, trying to hide his fear. He wanted to run fast, and far away, to where they could never find him.

"That's Mr. Merridew to you, scum," spat Roger. "And don't sound so disrespectful. He's your new president, and the best our country has ever had."

"And you're his minion," Ralph muttered.

"Shut up," growled Roger. "Now here's how it's gonna go. I'm gonna kill you. You are going stay still and make it nice and easy for me. None of your running. None of your little games. This isn't gonna go the same way it went on the island."

_You're exactly the same_, thought Ralph, though he wasn't sure how his was generating coherent thoughts while being threatened by the murderer of his best friend. _You're still a thug, a thoughtless criminal._

"Didn't being on the island change you at all?" He didn't realize he'd said this out loud, until he heard Roger's wicked laugh.

"It did. It made me stronger. Jack too. You wanna know how he's become president? Well, I'll tell you-since I'm gonna kill you anyways- it certainly wasn't through the electoral vote. You think you're the only one who learned the 'true nature of man' on that island? Don't deny it, I heard you blubbering on about it on the boat, after we were rescued. You think Jack didn't learn that too? He learned it before you did, scum, and has put it to greater use than you have. We talk about it every day, Jack and me. We've made great plans, the two of us, with our knowledge, our strength from that godforsaken island. "

_Jack doesn't tell you anything,_ thought Ralph. _He may babble to you about they power you'll share someday, but he doesn't mean it. He'll never share power with anyone if he's capable of keeping it all for himself. You're just a pawn to him- a disposable piece in his quest for domination._

Roger continued his monologue, ignoring the stony silence from Ralph. "And it's helped us in more ways than one. You think people don't wanna vote for a man who survived a plane crash and went on to be the leader of a small pack of kids, providing for them and keeping them safe and all? Natural leader, that's Jack. And plenty of people to vouch for him, too. Only not you. And that's why I'm gonna kill you."

Ralph was frozen to the spot, all traces of dissembled calmness gone. He believed every word that Roger had said. And yet, the thought of his impending death didn't scare him.

"I'd rather die than follow Jack," he said, his voice quivering, but strong.

"Makes it easy, then," leered Roger. He walked out the door, leaving Ralph paralyzed by the cupboards, then turned and barred the door with an iron rod. He spilled some gasoline over the door and nearby walls-if the wind was right, one match would set off not only Ralph's house, but the whole group of dwellings wedged in on either side of it. And then to the rest of the block, the neighborhood, this whole part of town, he hoped. Perfect.

"No navy men to save you this time," he chuckled, and threw the match.


	2. Author's Note

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I do not own Ralph, Piggy, Jack, or Roger. I DO own the psychiatrists. I'm rather fond of him, in a "could you be less understanding?" way…similar to how I feel about the navy officer in the end of the actual book. Why is it that the grown-ups just don't get it?


End file.
